The Money Tree and Other Mysteries
by DSLeo
Summary: Answers to questions about sudden money, lost socks, Mr. Kim, Emily's maids, whatever else my odd mind contrives. Unrelated one-shots, anyone in GG may appear. Eight chaps total. (Written before 2016 revival)
1. Chapter 1

The Money Tree and Other Mysteries

Disclaimer: Theirs. Or S6 would never have happened.

Genre: Humor

Summary: So how do things "work" in Stars Hollow? A series of one-shots answering the questions that plague me.

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One: The Money Tree

"I don't get it," declared Lorelai, thumping down her empty coffee mug, and forlornly staring into its shallows. "Luke can afford all those clothes, and sure, yeah, I bought them at a billion percent off, but they weren't free, and now suddenly Sookie's talking about having money saved for an inn, only when did she ever save money for anything but a new set of knives?"

"Oh dear," sighed Miss Patty, and patted her young friend's hand. She also sniffed the coffee mug for traces of alcohol. Finding none, she concluded honesty to be her best policy. "Come walk with me, honey."

"No," mumbled Lorelai with a rebellious pout, and dropped her head onto her arms. "Don't wanna. Ain't gonna."

"Don't care, and you will," barked Patty in her best dance-instructor voice, which was rather more intimidating than a four-star general and only slightly less demanding than a maniacal tyrant king of yore.

As if lifted by strings, Lorelai rose, shrugged into her coat and promptly slouched. A tap on her lower back from Miss Patty snapped her spine straight, though Lorelai's own dance lessons had chiefly been in such 1980s genres as "The White Person Wiggle" and "Head-Bouncing Jitters". Still, once subjected to a ballet teacher, a body never forgot, out of sheer terror if nothing else. Madame LaFleur had left many lasting impressions, typically with her wholly decorative and unnecessarily heavy cane, on generations of Hartford girls.

Once outside, in the brisk apple-tasting autumn air, Patty guided Lorelai along to the town square. "Let's walk off that pie," she said cheerfully.

"I didn't have pie."

"You will."

"Oh good, it's one of _those_ talks," sighed Lorelai, shoving her hands into her coat pockets. Her curls bounced in the breeze, an odd contrast to her stony frown. "Look, I'm just saying, suddenly it hits me, nobody died, so where'd it all come from? I worked double shifts at the inn to make ends meet, let alone save money, and since I bought the house, it's coupons, discounts, second-hand, beg my parents for Chilton tuition, hello, money doesn't grow on trees, or my mother would have an orchard of them and…"

"Lorelai, dear, shut up."

Lorelai's mouth snapped shut. Patty's hand closed on her arm, as if the older woman required support.

"Now, I am violating some very strict rules here, but Taylor… Well, he's Taylor," said Patty sternly. "There is, in fact, a money tree."

Lorelai stopped short, and her heeled boots provided excellent traction against Patty's momentum. "Do I look like I fell off a turnip truck?"

"You look like you fell out of heaven, my angel," cooed Patty, inspiring Lorelai to an expression rather like Emily Gilmore smelling rotted roses. "Walk."

Teeth grinding audibly, Lorelai walked. "A money tree. Uh-huh. Tooth fairies, too?"

"You know about phone trees?"

"Sure, I'm on one for… Was on one… For Rory's school, for closings and things," replied Lorelai. "Person A calls a couple of people, and those two call two more people each, so now there's four people who each call two people, and…"

"Yes, good, exactly, well, the money tree, ah, well, it works in reverse."

They paced the perimeter of the square while Lorelai's mind did lightning-fast calculations, made associations, and achieved several obvious conclusions. Chief among them was that Patty truly did love an elaborate set-up for a joke.

"Okay, I'll bite," sighed Lorelai finally, as they turned onto one of the paths to the gazebo. "A money tree in reverse is a pyramid. As in, pyramid scheme. As in, lots of people put in money and the money all ends up at the top of the pyramid and none of it ever goes back where it came from."

Red-cheeked, Miss Patty conceded, "Well, yes, it does sort of work that way, but it's not what you think."

"Really? Sookie and Luke aren't buying buildings and conjuring up savings accounts?"

"No, they are, but…"

Her free hand demonstrating, Lorelai challenged sharply, "Look, I grew up around money, and I know the way it flows, and it mostly flows uphill, it's the opposite of sh..."

"It was their turn."

"…it was their turn?" echoed Lorelai lamely. "Turn to what?"

"Let's sit," suggested Miss Patty, and tugged her heavy fringed shawl closer around her shoulders. "In the gazebo."

Once at the gazebo, the two women settled onto its steps. Lorelai waited with a skeptical scowl. Patty said, "Kirk, go home."

Kirk slunk from the shrubbery. "Mother isn't expecting me yet."

"Then go somewhere else," ordered Patty firmly, and used her cane to point. "That way."

Shoulders slumped, Kirk trotted off in the indicated direction. Lorelai pitied Mrs. Kim, whose antique store lay in the path of the chaos known as Kirk, before she turned to Patty with a toss of her head. "Turn?"

"It's only for selected, uh, people. Who are known by the town elders to be putting the money back into Stars Hollow, real estate, businesses, that sort of thing. For example, if you want to expand a store, or turn an old building into a dance studio, or..."

"Or an inn or a diner or…"

"No, Luke sold the family house and that was how he got the seed money for the diner. But he's a reliable, established…"

"Oh!" exclaimed Lorelai, and tugged her skirt over her breeze-cooled knees. "People who'll never leave town."

"Basically, yes. Like Luke. Taylor. Kirk…" Miss Patty smiled weakly, and examined her fingernails for flaws in the perfect wine-red polish. "Of course, if you _do_ leave, the money goes back where it came from, and passes to the person whose turn it is."

"Where's the money start?"

"You know, honey, nobody's sure. It's been part of Stars Hollow forever," shrugged Patty. "It's how Luke's father got the money to buy the store, and how Taylor's great-grandfather started whatever it was, and I'm sure it's how Mrs. Gleason paid to feed all those sons of hers other than Kirk, poor skinny thing."

Confused into submission, Lorelai pondered aloud, "How much…?"

"I think it's around a hundred thousand dollars."

Lorelai squeaked, eyes popping wide. " _What?_ "

"And, ah, if you're established, like, ah, Luke or Taylor or Mrs. Kim or Andrew or Gypsy or…"

"I get it," interrupted Lorelai icily, rose, and stood with foot tapping. "Town-approved?"

"Essentially, yes, the town elders approve, and they arrange people's places on the money tree. You can pass up a turn, naturally, I did, once I started, I had enough, but Taylor, well, he's Taylor, and Kirk works hard even if he works…strangely…and…"

Looming over Patty, Lorelai bit out, "Whoa, whoa, _whoa_! Cease! Desist! How many people are on this tree? There's nine _thousand_ people in this town! I'm not a genius like Rory, but I'm still good at basic math, and where does all this money come from to start with?"

"Sweetie, if anyone knows, they're not telling. And I've tried to get them to talk."

Something in the way Patty said those words sent a shiver up Lorelai's spine.

"And like I said, it's not for something like a house, it has to be for the town's economy, sooo… You can apply to be on the tree, or the town fathers can agree to put you on it without application, or you can be, ah, nominated…" Flushed, Patty looked away, lost in some memory Lorelai did not want her to share. "Sookie's plans to open an inn, well, she was nominated, and her turn came up this year. Last year was Luke's. And the money comes from people who leave. Or die."

Lorelai paced away, and back, several times. "Hold on. So when Taylor goes off in a meeting about remembering the town in your will…"

"Yes, that's why."

"And if you leave?"

"Mia," said Patty promptly, heaved herself to her feet with a groan for knees that had danced their best long ago, and patted Lorelai's shoulder. "She put a hundred thousand into the money tree fund, when she sold the inn, although she didn't have to. She wanted to. And she nominated Sookie, I believe, but I'm not sure I can trust Tillie on that."

Lorelai's heart dropped into her feet. "She nominated Sookie," she repeated in a tiny wounded-bird voice. "Not me."

"Well, honey, of course not!"

Lorelai glanced down, before tears could be seen.

"If Tillie's telling the truth, and I'm not saying she is, Mia assumed you'd use it for Harvard. Which isn't in the rules for the money tree. It has to be a business venture. An economic contribution to the town as a whole. Now that I think about it," added Patty as she tugged Lorelai into movement, "maybe that's why the town has all those ridiculous fines and fees for walking on the grass, too many lights in a holiday display…" Humming, Miss Patty vanished into her own musings, leaving Lorelai to steer them both back to the diner.

"It's diabolical," announced Lorelai, pausing before the door that led to coffee, pie, and a slightly less insane version of insanity.

"Hmm?"

"Luke. He couldn't leave, could he? To go with Rachel. Or he'd have to give up the diner, and the building, to put his, uh, 'share'…" Lorelai crinkled her nose. "Back on the money tree. It's a way to trap people here forever. Like Emily and her dinners. You _owe_. So you can't _leave_."

"Oh, Lorelai," whispered Patty, and studied the younger woman with true sympathy shining in her eyes. "It's not meant to be that way. Luke can leave whenever he wants. If he doesn't sell the building, he won't even be expected to pay back the money tree."

Dull-eyed, Lorelai mumbled, "So that's it. You kiss the feet of the right people, and a hundred thousand dollars appears in your bank account. Just like Emily."

"No, dear," said Patty, yanking open the diner door with unexpected vigor. "Luke, sweetie, we need coffee and pie! It's an emergency!"

"Yeah, yeah," groused Luke, but immediately reached for mugs and the coffee pot.

Sotto voce, Patty told Lorelai, "And Sookie never has to pay it back, either."

"Even when she dies?"

"It'd be _polite_ , but it's not _required_. Not even Taylor can sue the dead."

"I'm going to wake up and discover this was all a bad dream from drinking decaf, right?"

Patty exhaled heavily. "Oh, sweetie. Luke? Make that pie with ice cream."

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AN: So PurryCat and I were wondering where the money came from, when Sookie suddenly had savings, and Luke suddenly had savings, with which to invest in inns, buy buildings out from under Taylor, and similar. This nonsense popped to mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still applies, or I'd be in the editing bay for the upcoming revival.

GG GG GG

Two: Trust Fund, Baby

As the dust settled, quite literally, Rory Gilmore turned to her mother and uttered a familiar sigh. It was the one Lorelai knew from her own childhood, although in her case, she had been wondering if _either_ parent loved her.

She sat her daughter down on the sofa, arm around her thin shoulders, and said gently, "Spill, kiddo."

Rory shrugged off Lorelai's arm, and her mother's attempt to smooth her hair off her face. Unsettled, Lorelai withdrew her hand, dropping it into her lap, and let both of her feet strike the floor. Rory had on her Most Serious Face, a poor mask over her Sulky Teenager Face, which effectively obscured most of the Lost Little Girl Face.

"This is about your dad," deduced Lorelai. "The only question is, what exactly about your dad? The leaving? The showing up? The credit card denial at the bookstore? C'mon, I suck at Twenty Questions."

"That's a new motorcycle."

The clipped response drew an exaggerated, "Aaaaaand?" from Lorelai.

"I want coffee ice cream."

"I want an Oompa Loompa," countered Lorelai, but rose, and started for the kitchen. "I think we have coffee _and_ ice cream. Want to try…"

"How come?"

Lorelai stopped, a hand bracing herself against the wall for a moment. She breathed out a curse. "How come what? How come ice cream?"

"Mom!" yipped Rory angrily as she leapt to her feet.

Lorelai tried to unkink the sudden knots of tension in her neck by tossing her head. "That's my title, don't wear it out."

Rory stomped her foot, arms folded tight against her ribcage. "Mom! Stop it! I'm not a kid!"

"You're always _my_ kid," Lorelai shot back, mimicking the posture with vicious accuracy. "How come _what_ , Rory? How come Chris is Chris? Why does he think a smile fixes everything? C'mon, I need…"

" _I needed child support why did you let him get away with it!_ "

When Lorelai shrugged a casual, "Oh, that," her daughter's skin ebbed from red to white. Her backside dropped to the couch, causing her teeth to click shut dangerously near the tip of her tongue.

Once she'd found a package of M&Ms, two no-fat vanilla yogurt cups bought at ten cents apiece, and clean spoons, Lorelai rejoined her daughter on the couch. She handed one cup and spoon to Rory, set the M&Ms between them, and peeled the foil off her own cup. "So, you're finally asking why I never sued for child support."

Recklessly pouring candies into the yogurt, Rory confirmed, "Well, duh, yeah. Haydens. Money. Hello?"

Lorelai waved her spoon in admonition. "Haydens. Money. Hello!"

"Argh!" yelled Rory through a mouth of chocolate-enhanced yogurt. She swallowed it all, around a thick slurping noise. "Make sense! Please?"

Curling her legs under herself, Lorelai thoughtfully dropped a quantity of brown M&Ms into her yogurt, since Rory didn't like the "choco-poop". Stirring daintily, Lorelai said, "It makes sense, I promise. You see, your dad has a humungous trust fund. I'm talking trust fund with a capital gains dollar sign. That's how he can go all Jack Kerouac on the road, but luxury-class and champagne cocktails."

"So why don't…"

"I'm getting there, Hasty Hannah."

Rory subsided into a head-to-toe pout.

"Mia helped me find a free lawyer. The problem was, the Haydens had three or four lawyers, and…" This time, Lorelai's sigh was that of a child whose parents could never love her. "They re-rigged the trust fund to have a lot of fun conditions like, only Francine could touch it, and it was going to be revoked if Chris used it for anything other than personal purposes, and legal financial obligations? Like child support? Somehow or other, that wouldn't count as _personal_." The acid of her own opinion surged in Lorelai's throat. She choked it down with a false giggle. "Oh, and they moved it to another country, too. Hey, international banking, it's all fun till someone finds the paperwork."

Rory's stiff shoulders indicated her lack of amusement.

Stifling a groan at the impossibility of shielding a child forever from life's pain, Lorelai blinked back salty tears. "I could've gone to my parents, but… Well, your grandmother was still thinking about taking you away, and if I didn't drop it…"

They ate their candied yogurt in relative peace.

Eventually, the last M&M gone, they studied each other.

"Hey, kiddo."

"Mph."

Lorelai leaned over, and this time, Rory allowed her to brush a wisp of hair from her face. "I know I could've tried again. I didn't. You know why?"

Rory shook her head.

"I can take care of myself, and I can take care of you, too, without any trust fund. And your dad…" She trailed off tactfully, always aware she did not want Rory to have regrets about closing doors on parents. Not to say Lorelai regretted her own choice, precisely, but it was not a decision she carried lightly, despite the passage of years.

"And Dad needs a trust fund because he can't even keep track of a single credit card," concluded Rory, forcing a smile. She hugged Lorelai. "Yeah. I know. It's still not fair."

Lorelai swallowed hard. "Love you," she told her daughter, and was immensely glad she had not told her daughter the other reason child support had been denied.

The Haydens had agreed to generous child support… With a condition. Thrice-weekly visits with Rory, the child whose existence they blamed for Christopher's failings, almost as much as they blamed Lorelai.

They were intelligent people, those Haydens. They knew Lorelai wouldn't take any sum of money if it put Rory in harm's way. The Haydens definitely qualified as harm.

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AN: Believe it or not, it's not unheard of for visitation to be a condition of child support. Not all US states have statutes allowing these things, but you'd be amazed how strange matters get in arbitration. I can also imagine the Haydens knew Lorelai would refuse money under such conditions, thus "protecting" themselves.


	3. Chapter 3

Money Tree 3

Disclaimer: Not even close to mine.

AN: This one twists a bit dark, but blame my husband, whose suggestion this was.

Three: Calling Mr. Kim

"Mama?"

Mrs. Kim turned away from the register and the receipts she relentlessly reorganized. "The salad water is on the top shelf."

Lane Kim swallowed a grimace. "Thanks, Mama. Actually, um, I kinda wanted to ask… Um… Mama, where's Appa? You know? Abeoji?"

"I know what the words appa and abeoji mean," sniffed her mother, scowling darkly in her direction. "Why do you wish to know the whereabouts of this person?"

Lane nervously drummed her fingers against her legs. "Well, Mama, your family is in Busan…"

"Correct," clipped out Mrs. Kim, her fingers dancing on a calculator as she added the day's checks to the day's cash receipts.

"And, you know, I am really reallllly grateful that you've been so good about the band and Zach and all…"

Mrs. Kim continued her arithmetic, ignoring Lane's tightly-controlled shivers of anxiety, the bitten lower lip, and the eyebrows trying to tie themselves into a knot.

The tension exploded out of Lane in an imperative, crisp, "Mama!"

Sighing, Mrs. Kim locked away her receipts, and her calculator, and pointed. "Kitchen."

"Mama, I don't want salad water, or tea! I want to know where Appa is!"

Mrs. Kim continued to point. Dejected, Lane trotted to the kitchen. It was a wasteland of tofu chips, wheat grass, and a variety of loose teas in precisely labelled canisters. At her mother's silent order, she sat down at the table, and groaned, head in her arms, as Mrs. Kim clinked and clattered about. Finally, a faint _tink_ indicated the presence of the best family china teapot and cups, on an elegant tray, which made Lane wail, "Oh my God, he's dead!"

"Do not take the Lord's name in vain!" yelled Mrs. Kim, and swatted in Lane's direction. "Drink your tea!"

Grumbling to herself, Lane obediently drank her tea from the traditional handle-free cup. The color reminded her of celery, as did the tea, until the afterburn struck. "Mama?" she wheezed.

From behind the cooling bowl, Mrs. Kim drew a flask. It, too, was vintage, though rather more American than the tea set in its origins. "For some conversations, we need more than tea."

"Absinthe?" guessed Lane wildly, and incorrectly. At her mother's glare, she gasped, "The yakju? But he's not dead?"

"Drink," commanded her mother, and dosed the cups before adding tea from the cooling bowl. Her movements were graceful, controlled, ceremonial, and Lane wondered if Mrs. Kim knew she was murmuring under her breath as she performed the steps of the tea ceremony plus alcoholic beverage.

When each woman had downed three cups of enhanced tea, Mrs. Kim defended herself with a calm, "It is medicinal."

"Okay," agreed Lane, head buzzing.

Mrs. Kim leaned forward, glowering, and addressed her daughter with sharp suspicion. "You knew I keep liquor? You said nothing?"

Lane did not quite roll her eyes. "I paid attention, Mama. Half the kids you think are good little Seventh-Day Adventists are sneaking the yakju or soju out of their parents' cabinets. Trust me, drumming for a rock band is _nothing_ ," she said with a sweep of her hand, "compared to what the other kids at church were doing."

"I do not want to know," decided Mrs. Kim. "That is not the point."

Lane peered a touch too hopefully into the tea cup, but no more appeared. "I know."

"Come."

Obedient, Lane went, out the door, across the back yard, and to one of four small outbuildings in which Mrs. Kim stored inventory. Sometimes, customers could browse these sheds, but never the one marked "Severely Damaged".

Lane tipped her head to one side. "I don't remember that one."

"You were too busy, running around with boys, and playing drums," huffed Mrs. Kim, shuffling keys on a ring until she found one wrapped in white tape. Lane frowned. As unconventional as her mother could be, having defied Korean tradition so far as to live in the United States, Lane did not suspect her mother used white in the Christian sense. White was purity to a Christian. To a Buddhist, white was worn to signify the seriousness of the occasion of a funeral. Truly, black and white were the worlds from which the Kims sprang.

The entire shed's door was painted white, as well.

"Mama?" whispered Lane.

"Ah, there," said Mrs. Kim gladly, and the lock fell off the latch, thumping gently into the neatly trimmed grass by the flagstone path. "Now, this may be upsetting."

Lane wished she had never asked, and made a belated attempt at deflection. "We can go inside and I'll sing hymns with you!"

Her mother reached into the shed, and flipped a switch. Light illuminated a simple aluminum-sheeted interior, a large crate, and two rather peculiar devices. One was a dehumidifier. The other was an air conditioning unit. While climate control of inventory was usual, it seemed odd to Lane to see it in a shed dedicated to severely damaged-and therefore financially useless-goods.

As if it made sense, Mrs. Kim announced, "Your father was stuck at customs."

"Okay?"

"For several months."

"Um, okay again?" tried Lane, backing further from both her mother and the crate. She ran her hands nervously over her cardigan, which covered a cozy old t-shirt depicting a Grateful Dead rose-wreathed skull.

Mrs. Kim drew a sheaf of papers from a plastic bag taped to the crate's lid. "Departed Seoul, oh, two years ago already?"

"Mama?" squeaked Lane uneasily, eyes widening.

"Delhi, Dubai, hmm, yes, here it is, Moscow, then after I paid the fine," murmured Mrs. Kim, leafing through the various crinkling and crackling papers. "Yes, another month in Helsinki, bad weather, very cold, very icy, very bad."

Lane shut her eyes tight, her face a pale squiggle of dread. "Mama, what…"

"Ah, then finally London, New York, and I had to pay very high prices to have it brought here by van."

"Oh no no no _no_ ," whispered Lane into her hands, which were jammed against her mouth to stop all possible screaming, wailing, and possibly air flow.

"You see, Lane, I am very frugal, yes, but your father was very frugal and very, ah…" The older woman pursed her mouth, studying the ceiling for inspiration. "Foolish, yes."

"Cue Tim Burton movie in three, two…" muttered Lane, back jammed into the wall because she couldn't bear to move enough to flee the shed by way of the door six inches to her left. " _One_?"

Her mother popped open the lid of the crate.

"Food, yes, water, yes, receptacles for his waste, yes, but he did not look at the oxygen tank," sighed Mrs. Kim, shaking her head. "It is very cold and very _thin_ in cargo holds." She dipped her chin, hands raising to prayer position. "God watch over his soul."

"If this is a movie, then I should walk away, and not be the idiot," babbled Lane, "the idiot who walks to the scary box, the way I'm walking to the scary box, and I'd be yelling at the screen, hey, stupid, don't do that, and I'm doing it, why am I doing this and why am I asking how long it took for this, to, uh, get, er… _here_?"

"Six months," said her mother sadly, and studied the contents. She extended a stiff arm, and drew Lane to her. "The cold… At least he makes no mess or smell."

Lane pressed into her mother, and squinted into the crate.

Her response was, perhaps, not quite what she expected herself. "Oh. So that's why you save those little packets of the stuff that keeps things dry in bottles and stuff. Y'know. The sili-whatever pellets."

"Yes, it is."

"That's a lot of them," remarked Lane after an agonizingly long silence.

"I do not know what else to do. I cannot call the police and say, here, here is my silly husband, he is a mummy, I would be grateful if you do not charge me for having a dead body shipped all over the world." Mouth turned down, Mrs. Kim sniffed her irritation. "A direct flight, yes, he could be fine, but no, he must save money and be freeze-dried in Russia." She clucked disapprovingly. "I had to pay fines and fees to have him home, and then what do I do? Admit my husband is so foolish? No." She lowered the lid and locked it firmly. "There. Now you know."

"Yay," said Lane thinly.

"No, no, no 'yay'," Mrs. Kim scolded, ushering her out of the shed and into the sunlight. "It was ten thousand dollars to have him brought home. There is no 'yay' in spending ten thousand dollars. Foolish man could have saved us a great deal of money by buying a ticket."

Lane never knew thereafter if the liquor, the emotion, or the combination sent her spinning to her bed in a nightmare haze. Whatever it was, she woke the next day quite determined to not acknowledge there had ever been such a person as Mr. Kim.

GG GG GG

AN: So, nobody ever saw him. Nobody referred to his job. Lane has "parents" mentioned, but by S4, we don't even have a hint of a Mr. Kim. (In "Afterboom", you see Mrs. Kim sleeps alone.) And there's no Mr. Kim at Lane's wedding in S6.

The Anglicized spelling of Korean words is solely the fault of my not being able to find a better interpreter than Polyglot's website. Korean tea sets, btw, have the pot, a cooling bowl, and cups, and the handle of the tea pot extends to one side, rather than the handle attaching to the top of the tea pot. I tell you all that to tell you to please not yell at me about inaccurate tea sets. My MIL is a tea fanatic and owns tea sets from all over the world. Her Korean set is quite different from her Japanese set, and both are very different from her umpteen sets from England.

Oh, and I'm aware nobody'd let a body through customs, unless bribed. Why do you think it cost so much to get him home? To be honest, I could see her leaving him in Moscow.


	4. Chapter 4

Money Tree 4

Disclaimer: Theirs.

Four: The Lost Socks

Nicole Leahy's face showed no remorse. That was what tipped Luke Danes over the edge into blind fury. The lack of remorse, shame, regret in her blue eyes when caught with her lover, in _their_ house.

The lover whose socks he had worn. It made his feet itch to even think about it.

What shuddered through him like nausea took shape in words as he stared at the unrepentant Nicole over the table in the law firm's conference room. " _How many times did I wear his socks_?"

"The fact you can't answer that should tell you why you wore them at all," came Nicole's glib reply. Luke abruptly noticed she had dry, puckered skin around her eyes, the sort that spoke to a lot of wine cocktails and too much time in the sun. It was deeply unattractive.

"Don't turn this on me!" roared Luke, thumping the table. A mistake, as it sent earthquake tremors through his hungover head. The pain sobered him to a more passive, "Don't. Okay?" He wiped a hand over his unshaven face. "Just… Don't. And don't tell me you did this because of Lorelai, or so help me…"

Nicole filled the room with bright, blinding laughter.

Too distressed to care what she found amusing, Luke ranted on, "You put his socks in my drawer. His socks. _His socks_! They were next to my socks! I need to buy new socks!"

Mirth undiminished, Nicole reached into her briefcase, pulled out a manila envelope, and tossed it across the table to him.

Luke opened it, praying it held divorce papers. He could sign them with the same lack of remorse shown by Nicole in contaminating his sock drawer.

The envelope held a photograph, of fairly decent quality, of his sock drawer. It was opened, with his everyday socks to one side, and his much-less-worn dressy socks to another, and no longer hidden under the latter was a small flat cardboard box. It wasn't very large. It might, perhaps, have held a wallet at some point in its existence.

The second photograph showed the box with the lid removed.

Luke's breath caught, and his whole body turned rigid.

"I couldn't find my trouser socks, and I thought maybe, just maybe, they ended up in _your_ drawer, since they might look like man-socks," trilled Nicole nastily, "and I saw the box and thought it might be a surprise present for me. I wanted to take pictures. I wanted to prove you were committed to me after all. Then I saw _this_."

Luke's fingers trembled as they shuffled to a third photo.

"Surprise!" caroled Nicole acidly. "I find a piece of newspaper. With _her_ writing on it. I know. I see it all over your diner menus! And it's dated _years_ ago. Only she never went away. She was in _my_ house during _our_ marriage!"

Luke's defense was a feeble, "I took it out of my wallet after we decided not to get divorced."

Nicole levitated, her chair toppling to the side. "That was in your wallet? When we got married? On the cruise?"

His mouth opened, and shut, because Luke Danes knew when nothing could save him. As when the police cuffed him for punching the Sock Man's car, he was busted, fair and square, and he knew it. Alas, this time he could not call Lorelai to post bail.

"I knew it," snarled Nicole, pacing the room like a designer-suited leopard. "I _knew_."

"Then why'd you…" began Luke hopelessly.

"Because I thought we could work! You don't get in my way with my career, I don't ask you to give up owning your diner, we could have made it _work_!"

Luke slid the photographs into the envelope. He shoved it across the table to her, and crossed his arms, slouching belligerently. "I don't think love should be work."

"Oh my God, you're so naïve! Of course love isn't work! It's making a relationship that's work! Love doesn't fix everything, you have to have _trust_ ," sneered Nicole, "and _honesty_ , and _respect_ , and if you ever had the guts to be honest or had any respect for me, you would've never proposed! No matter how drunk you got! Fine, I'm not blameless, I'm not perfect, but _you had that woman in your pocket when you said wedding vows_!"

Red-faced, Luke nodded his confession.

"She was in the room when…" Nicole suddenly turned away, shoulders pinched tight, shivering. "She was always in the room. I knew it, but I didn't think you were that kind of man. I didn't _want_ to think it."

Luke offered a soft, apologetic, "I shouldn't have gone on the cruise. I was worried I'd lead you along."

Nicole's yap of laughter told him he'd done far worse than that.

"I…" he began, seeking to find words for what was, for him, not necessary to explain. Once love was expressed, that was enough. And it should be enough. It had been enough for his parents. That train of thought completed its route, and from Luke erupted the words, "I hate travel! And I traveled for you! I hate cruises and big cities and cocktails! And I did those for you! Don't you tell me I didn't _work_!"

"Oh my God, you can't be serious," snapped Nicole, pointing a finger as if accusing him in front of a jury of his peers. "Doing things together is _work_?"

"I didn't see you at any BoSox games!"

"You never asked!"

"You hate baseball!"

"Well, you hate theater, but you went! You never gave me a choice!"

"It was your choice to cheat!" shouted Luke, fists clenched, and a vein in his head starting to throb.

"It was a one-time thing until I saw that horoscope!"

"That makes it better," sneered Luke, and then a thought occurred, rather belatedly. "And why the hell did this guy leave his _socks_? Who walks around without their socks on? He came in with his socks on, why the hell did he put on his damn boxers but not his _socks_?"

"What makes you think he wears underwear?"

"Gah!" cringed Luke, hands upraised in self-defense. "I don't need to know that!"

Panting, they glared at each other, having possibly discovered the real source of their passionate attraction: antipathy.

After another relative eternity or two, Luke exhaled and shook his head to rid it of very unwelcome images. Nicole blinked rapidly, and ran her fingers over her hair without quite touching it.

"You'll never understand what I'm saying," sighed Nicole, unattractively sallow under her make-up, "but you might remember it someday. Even if you have… Even if there's love, you can't just leave it. It's not like a cactus, you can't put it in a window and ignore it ninety percent of the time, and have it stay strong." She pointed at the cactus in the window of the conference room as proof. "You can't drip a little love on someone, like you give water to a cactus, and expect to get big happy flowers every day!"

"You aren't making sense, and I don't have time for this," said Luke irritably, and stood. He defiantly slapped on his baseball cap. "Just send me the papers, I'll sign them, done, okay?"

"Oh, you don't walk away easy, Luke, not after _this_ ," hissed Nicole, slapping the envelope of photographs. "I am going to make you pay and _pay_ for doing this to me!"

"You're insane," dismissed Luke in a growl, and stalked out the door. Where the hell did Nicole get the nerve to blame him for her adultery? And why was she snooping in his sock drawer in the first place? What the hell were trouser socks, anyway? And she'd put that man's socks in _his_ drawer on purpose. To test him, in the worst way possible. He was well rid of Nicole.

And as for Lorelai, well, leave it to Lorelai to cause trouble without even being in the building. He would certainly have to throw away the horoscope.

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AN: Trouser socks are dainty, sometimes sheer or decorative fine-knit socks women can wear under trousers with loafers or similar sensible shoes. My husband mistook my favorite pair for his because, of course, all black socks in this household must be his. *headdesk* Thus does reality inspire me.

I concluded that the only way the Sock Man's socks could end up in Luke's drawer? Willful malice. What, the guy left his socks overnight, Nicole threw them in the laundry and just happened to not notice putting them in Luke's things? Yeah, right. And I'm ASP.


	5. Chapter 5

isclaimer: Honest to goodness, do we have to keep saying it's not ours?

Credit for the topic goes to PurryCat.

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Five: Custom Maid

Emily Gilmore stepped out of her silver Mercedes S-class sedan, and smoothed her skirt. She walked crisply to the door of what appeared to be a high-end salon, the sort that was so expensive that it did not advertise, not even with a sign on or near its building. The brick did not support ivy, as that would deteriorate the mortar, but trellises bore the weight of green falls of at least three varieties of decorative _Hedera_. The shutters had been painted a discreet and tasteful black, and window boxes spilled over with brilliantly contrasting white blossoms. If not for a small gilt-edged sign reading _Service is our Success_ , then even Emily might have thought it was merely a wealthy person's home, albeit in a very urban locale.

Emily drew in a deep breath, let it out through her nose, and glanced at her reflection in the smoked glass of the door. Her mental checklist was swift, reflexive. Suit: vintage Chanel, in red and white tweed, emphasizing her eye color and yet not distracting from her vivid auburn hair. Handbag and shoes: Gucci, the former being the classic Jackie, the latter being mid-heeled pumps in exactly the same red as that in her suit. The bag was forgivably unmatched, as it was an original Jackie in the brown, but had red trim. Her cosmetics: applied with an expert brush. Jewelry: simple small diamonds at the ears, bracelet watch, both Tiffany. And this was, for Emily, suitable for this particular meeting, as the best armor for a medieval knight set upon battle.

A tiny pucker of distaste marring her expression, Emily opened the door with her own hand and entered the enemy's den.

The receptionist (Donna Karan, second-tier, not the couture collection) rose at once. "Mrs. Gilmore. Evelyn is expecting you."

Emily smiled thinly. She knew the proprietor's name was not Evelyn, nor Eve, Lynn, or any variation thereof. "Of course."

Heels clicking with military precision, she strolled down a hallway papered in silk, an effect she felt was ruined by the sheen of dust on the chair rail. She stopped, pulled a fine Egyptian cotton handkerchief from her purse, in a razor-edged ironed square, and swiped the rail with a sparkling smile in her eyes. She slipped the cotton square into her bag the way a soldier might hide a grenade.

She opened the door into a parlor in shades of pink and green that she could approve because the furniture was deep walnut in color. White or pale wood would have been, to Emily, tacky at best. The dark glow of old, loved wood added class where it was, in Emily's opinion, severely needed.

She paused, because Evelyn had been a good student. Her desk was framed by the bay window, the upholstery of the furnishings a rich warm leather rather than floral print, and the fact the window faced north meant Evelyn never suffered from the lighting. Truly, Evelyn had _learned_.

Emily, however, was the master.

She shut the door, her smile growing, and studied her protégé-turned-opponent. "Michael Kors," she said finally. "The skirt works, but really, I wouldn't have drawn attention to your hips with that pink top. At least it complements your complexion, Rosa."

"My name," said the other woman, "is Evelyn." She smiled brightly. "Tea?" she asked, gesturing at a nearby credenza, cleverly re-made from a roll-top Victorian-era desk. Her tone suggest that _tea_ was synonymous with _cyanide_.

"Oh, no thank you." Emily seated herself, ankles crossed, feet tucked under the chair, the picture of gentility. She parried the poisonous implication with a sugary, " _Rosa_."

"My name is Evelyn," retorted the brunette.

"Yes, quite, it is, Rosa, until I decide it is not."

The dark-haired woman flushed, sat down, mouth pinched tight. She folded her hands, digging her nails into her own skin. "Why are you…"

"I am here to express my dissatisfaction with a certain Katherine Strand."

"I'm surprised. She speaks flawless English, has years of experience on staff in publicly toured homes in England, and excellent references."

"Oh, Rosa," purred Emily serenely, "you should know that I know what references are worth where you are concerned. Somewhat less than a plastic fern. Or those seed pearls in your ears. Now." Emily leaned back, and dropped the hatchet, so to speak. "You realize I do you a favor by patronizing your little agency."

Rosa's eyebrows went up in delicate disbelief. "A favor. You fire everyone within two weeks."

Emily patted hair that had yet to stir from its place. "Yes, and supply you with the details of their failings, in order to help you groom them into better domestic helpers, thereby aiding you your business over the long term." She drew a small envelope from her purse, and flicked it onto the desk with her fingernails, ensuring that the other woman saw the French manicure. "Incidentally, your roots are showing."

Rosa's fingers unclenched and automatically reached for her hairline.

"No, no, those dreadful acrylic tips," scoffed Emily, indicating the aforementioned false fingernails with a tiny nod. "As I was saying, I found Katherine particularly unsatisfactory. In addition to having falsified references, her accent is not consistently Received Pronunciation. When provoked, she lapses into what I will politely call _working-class_ jargon, complete with idiosyncratic diphthongs."

Cheeks red, the younger woman said softly, "I see. Anything else?"

"Oh I believe it's all in my…note." Emily gleamed at the woman, the epitome of the helpful friend, should said friend carry a concealed weapon. "Ah, I did not embarrass you by putting it in writing, but… She needs to learn to shave in the American style. Even Richard noticed those birds' nests under her arms, and he generally doesn't notice the time of day unless money is involved."

Rosa jotted notes with a gold pen on a legal pad. "How easily did you discover the references?"

"My dear, it is the internet age. Google."

Rosa stopped writing. "Google. She was that obvious?"

"Yes."

"Then she's fired."

Emily agreed smugly, "As I told her she should be."

Rosa heaved a sigh, and rubbed at her temples, elbows on her desk. "Look, Emily, I appreciate your help. I do. The severance package gave me my start."

"No, Rosa, I gave you this start, and I allow you to have a continuation, because I do not call immigration authorities about your status. Or your brother's. How is dear Carlos?" Emily smiled sunnily. "Is it cocaine rehab this time, or alcohol?"

Every line, wrinkle and curve of Rosa's face shouted at Emily to do something very rude and anatomically impossible. She hissed, " _Cabrona_."

"Hardly original, and may I remind you, _Evelyn_ ," replied Emily coolly, "the only reason I do not expose you and laugh as you are deported? Is how very profitable this arrangement is."

"You don't make a dime," said Rosa bluntly, and stood when Emily did. "How is this profitable? I hire them, you fire them!"

Emily laughed outright. Perhaps Rosa-turned-Evelyn was not quite the student she had thought. "Have a lovely day, and see to the cleaning, would you? Nobody will hire maids from an employment agency with dust on its woodwork." She tossed down the folded square of handkerchief. "I expect a _satisfactory_ maid at the door by three."

She walked grandly to her car, whereupon she had a minor fit of the giggles. Rosa had, after twenty-odd years, still failed to realize the benefits that came from Emily's reputation. A woman of her stature who was not run by her staff? Who could fire and hire at whim, without consequences from agencies? Oh, that was a woman with _power_. The sort that even Rosa-turned-Evelyn obeyed, without asking if she needed to do so.

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AN: This one lacked humor, but I can't find a funny reason for Emily's ability to hire and fire maids without being banned from every single employment agency in New England. Something sneaky and conniving and implicitly insidious? Yes. Giggle-worthy? No. Weird.

Nerd alert: _Hedera_ is the genus name for ivy. Emily has a garden club. She'd know.

Received Pronunciation is the British version of "most generic and widely neutral accent taught in school", and those are my words, not the dictionary's.

Fashion alert: All items mentioned really exist, either as vintage (Coco Chanel) or in the 2000-2002 fashion years. Gucci's "Jackie" bag, btw, has been a consistent hot item since its introduction before I was even born. Jackie Kennedy Onassis would be the "Jackie" in question.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Not mine. I believe in rigorous continuity.

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Six: Jailbirds

Some mysteries never come to light. Others are never solved. Among the unacknowledged such matters in Stars Hollow, one was so obvious that it took an outsider to discover it.

Paris had a way of speaking as if words were bullets, and her mouth lacked any safety switch whatsoever. She was also terrifyingly adept at talking while walking, and at refusing to surrender a suspicion. Given her mother's mental illness and her father's erratic influence, this made perfect sense. Paris was raised by an immigrant nanny. She absorbed far more from that culture than she actually did from what was, allegedly, her own. The outside of Paris was a harsh, blunt, driven, privileged white upper-class bitch in sensible shoes. The inside liked cozy kitchens, comfort food, and the moments of peace she permitted herself when not trying to outrun and, simultaneously, fulfill the obligations of her heritage. Deep down, Paris was a soft-hearted lost child, with all the paranoias inherent in any immigrant. It was odd, but then, so was everything about Paris.

Eavesdroppers would have been entertained, as well as confused, by her rapid-fire delivery to the hapless target of her editorial irritation. "It's _definite_ , not defiant, and I don't care if spell-check fills it in for you, this is Yale, not Yahoo-ville, well, I'm in Yahoo-ville, but the paper is _Yale_ , and we're certainly not letting…" Paris blew her bangs off her face with a grumble. "Tripe like 'he defiantly said' for 'definitely' said. As for the subject-object confusion in personal pronouns, no, _me and you_ do not exist, understand? You and _I_ , as in _we_. You wouldn't say _us_ are going to the game, why the hell would you say _me and you_? Did you even pass the test of standard written English to get into Yale, or did you father pay someone to take it for you?" Paris paused at a corner, by habit, since Stars Hollow was not a place where one feared oncoming motor vehicles. "No, Ithunn, I don't care. Also, if I ever see you submit another article with crap like 'lied down' for 'lay down', and other fundamental errors you should have had educated out of you by the ninth grade…" Paris frowned at her phone, then shrugged. "Huh. She quit. Good. One less incompetent troll on the staff."

Passing the diner without noticing its existence, Paris stabbed a number and continued walking. "Gilmore, it's Gellar. Ithunn's finally out. Yeah. Defiantly definite." The usually humorless Paris snickered. "I agree, Delilah has excellent vocabulary, and she doesn't rely on auto-fill, but she never writes a sentence more than six words in length. Yeah, yeah, fine, she'll do for now. Yes, that's the troubadour. No, I'm not trying…" Paris stopped short, tapping a foot. "Gilmore, I am in your too-good-to-be-true hometown trying to confirm a very bizarre rumor, passed on by _you_ … You grew up in a sitcom, Gilmore, there's never a sitcom without a situation to provide the comedy. I want the situation. No, I am not bothering your mother, or your precious Diner Guy, it has nothing to do with them." Whatever Rory Gilmore said in reply, Paris cut it off with an abrupt, "Gotta go, bye," and shoved her phone into her backpack amidst texts and notebooks.

Paris marched into the store owned by Taylor Doose and announced, to the shock of all those present in the checkout lane, "You. Me. Discussion. Now. Outside."

To the further shock, and outright surprise of most, Taylor meekly followed Paris Gellar outside.

"Young lady, this was most unexpected."

"Look, town selectman, the town selected you," out-jabbed Paris's fingers to emphasize her words, "to be the man who answers questions. I've been sniffing around this town looking for the stink for years and I finally have a whiff, and you're going to explain what I smell."

Taylor's nose and mouth crinkled up. "Yes, well, it's really not something this town wants to advertise."

Paris's eyes narrowed with unholy glee. Finally! The seedy underbelly of Stars Hollow, revealed!

Taylor led her into the small police station. It showed desks for several officers and a receptionist, the usual "Wanted" posters faded and tattered from long neglect, and an antique dot-matrix printer.

"Wow," said Paris in awe. "No coffee pot and donuts?"

"No, they go to Luke's or Weston's for that. Coop, hello, I want to show the young lady around."

Coop turned around, still talking on the phone in a polite monotone. "Yes, Tillie, I know you have a vested interest in your neighbor's well-being, but I can't tell you that."

Paris followed Taylor, carefully noting the fresh paint, the hiss of air filters, and a rather shocking lack of body odor or, indeed, any odor. In fact, the cells they approached appeared to be well-lit, airy, and melodic with the sound of birdsong.

Paris's eyebrows twitched. "Oh," said she.

Another few moments passed, while Taylor glowered at this impertinent intruder.

"It's an interesting use of shredded newspaper, and commendable recycling," stated Paris. She reached around, and tugged a camera off her backpack. Her snapshots unnerved Taylor, who begged, "Please don't!"

"It's for file photo purposes only," assured Paris, who could be completely honest in ways no one expected. "That's a swan in that cell."

"Yes, it attacked someone. It was the third offense, and so…"

"I get it, three swan-strikes, it's out. When does it return to an aquatic environment suited for its species?"

"Ah, we're re-locating it to a proper zoo."

"Uh- _huh_ ," sniffed Paris, stalking grandly to the next cell. "That," she announced, "is a falcon. Why is there a falcon in your town's jail?"

"It kills pigeons."

"Good. Pigeons are flying rats full of filthy disease and…"

Taylor huffed and puffed himself to twice his usual size. "Pigeons are picturesque!"

"They crap on everything," retorted Paris. "That's not picturesque, that's a health hazard! The falcon is doing a public service. Cities like New York encourage the nesting of falcons in order to…"

"Well, young lady," interrupted Taylor, white beard and finger waggling in unison in her face, "we are not some big city!"

"You're right," agreed Paris, moving past him. "In the big city, people like you rattle a cup on the corner and wear sandwich boards talking about the proximity of the end of the world. And what, exactly, is this?"

The next cell housed three chickens. A sandbox in one corner appeared to serve as recreational facility.

"Three French hens," stated Taylor defiantly, and definitely. His arms folded and his chin rose. "For the Christmas pageant. I'm expecting the partridge and the turtle doves next week." With great dignity, he nodded to the remaining, empty cell. "Any other questions?"

"No, that covers it all," said Paris, and tucked away her camera. She gave Taylor's hand a firm shake, remarked, "Thank you," in an absent-minded tone, and meandered calmly into the morning sunshine.

She found a bench in the square, allowed her backpack to rest, and drew out her phone. "Hey, Doyle, it's me. Yeah, I found out why nobody goes to jail in this town. No, it's a story, but it's not one we can publish." She brushed impatiently at her hair, which had the temerity to obey the wind and fly into her face. "Trust me, nobody would believe it. Of course, I got pictures!"

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AN: Ever notice even Jess doesn't spend a night in the "cells"? Well, they're occupied. There. Mystery solved!

Cookies to anyone who can guess which swan is behind bars:-)


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I'd never be that mean to Lorelai and Luke. Thus, not mine.

AN: A challenge from PurryCat: Someone reviews Luke's. Revenge for the time I challenged her to write a story themed around "Vanilla Fish". She did. Payback, baby. It comes with compound interest. Shout-out to PurryCat for also officially beta-ing this!

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Seven: Flies in the Soup

Alistair and Connor loved Stars Hollow. Truly, they did. Every year, they flew in from San Francisco for the fall foliage in Connecticut's most quaint rural villages, and to burrow through the endless antique stores to be found in same. Mrs. Kim was formidable, but knowledgeable, and to see her verbally fence with Alistair was a joy of Connor's life. The bills for shipping back and forth across the entire US, rather less so, but Alistair's decorating business flourished for the access gained to shadowy sources via Mrs. Kim. As for Connor, the annual month in Stars Hollow regenerated him after a summer of idiotic tourists sport-fishing off his boat, and prepared him for the grueling months on the commercial fisheries.

It helped, of course, that nothing in Stars Hollow ever changed. Without fail, every autumn, the maples flared crimson, but not garishly red. The skies were a crisp, unfogged blue, above the exquisitely white gazebo in the green town square. The charm of the Independence Inn had dimmed somewhat after a fire, but neither Alistair nor Connor faulted the manager's response. They adored Lorelai Gilmore. Such wit, fun, in rearranging her displaced guests! They could even appreciate the not-charm charm of Taylor Doose's obsequious fussing, and loved their long conversations with the colorful Miss Patty LaCosta, whose role in town was obscure but seemingly vital. Yes, if they ever retired from the West Coast, they would retire to Stars Hollow.

In short, Alistair and Connor loved Stars Hollow. All except for one establishment, and one person, despite the eye candy provided by the latter.

Oh, the coffee was exactly as good as promised. The artery-clogging burgers and fries satisfied the need for vacation decadence. But there were several problems, and Connor calmly listed them on a review on the new website they had, themselves, helped inform and implement.

Whine, as it was nicknamed among the insiders, had been created to allow people to openly review restaurants, clubs, bars, and any other venue involving food and drink. With October rioting colorfully about them, Connor felt they could kill two birds with one stone. Help their friends who'd developed the site, by using it, and maybe keep people away from the horror that was the mystery that was the diner in Stars Hollow.

Alistair sipped green tea, content to allow Connor to work up his review in Word before setting it loose on the world wide weirdness of the internet.

 _There is a certain charm_ , typed Connor on his up-to-the-date laptop, _in an establishment that bans the ubiquitous annoyance of the cell phone. It is cutely kitsch to keep the sign reading "Williams Hardware" on the building. The premises are clean. Nothing can be said against the coffee, tea, or Danishes._

 _Beyond that, Luke's Diner in Stars Hollow, Connecticut, is a nightmare to the casual tourist, the serious traveler, and yet not the local populace. Perhaps inertia explains the dedication of the town to its quirky greasy spoon. Certainly, no one here finds any obvious flaws, and it is a mystery to the mere visitor._

 _Why do they endure a diner owner who violates health codes by never wearing gloves, apron, or appropriate hair net over both head and unshaven face? Yes, the eponymous Luke is a good-looking man, and perhaps the women find that sufficient, but when one finds dander floating in the chili? Oh, then reality dispels all charms, perceived or real._

 _In one morning, as we sipped our tea and nibbled Danishes, we witnessed the owner shouting insults at regular customers. Calling them annoying, he ordered them out of his establishment. An hour later, he flirted shamelessly with women old enough to be his mother, then turned upon older ladies of the town and told them to stop "ogling" him. A woman greeted warmly in the morning was told brusquely, "I don't have time for you", at lunch. He served her coffee and pancakes at one meal, shouted furiously about her clogging arteries at lunch, and told her to "butt out of his life" when she asked him if he was okay. This, mind you, was his treatment of a loyal, regular, daily customer._

Connor flexed his fingers, stretched his forearms, and studied the diner.

 _On another occasion, a temper tantrum from the owner resulted in his closing the diner on the spot, meals uneaten, bills unpaid. This rather explains the thriving business of the bakery nearby, which must quite love the irascible diner proprietor._

 _While local residents seem to bear the brunt of the owner's erratic temper, the casual tourist is not exempt. "What're you looking at?" is a frequent shout, commonly heard after a quiet meal is interrupted by some tiny complaint, or a request for, perhaps, condiments._

 _A mere half-hour after this incident, the owner smiles and thanks you kindly for your patronage, and you wonder whether or not you are witnessing a multiple personality disorder in the flesh. Is there, perhaps, an evil twin, and the duo amuse themselves by trading places every hour or so?_

Document saved, Connor studied the diner around him, easing into a post-lunch lull.

 _In quiet periods, the diner is welcoming, warm, and so is its owner. He has a casual sort of_ bonhomie _, and one can see his baseball cap and plaid flannel as lovable eccentricities. Then, with the chime of a bell over the door, he can transform into a scowling, sullen recluse, whose calling is clearly to be left alone in some remote cavern on a mountaintop._

 _In fact, in what must be the most bizarre twist of all in the tale of this burger-and-pancake paradise, the quality of the food depends upon the mood of the proprietor._

 _That begs more than one question of itself._

Alistair, leaning around, grinned. "You _were_ paying attention."

"Always," said Connor, and disappeared into what was turning from a review into a dissertation. Fishermen were known for having busy minds.

 _The proprietor both serves and cooks. Yet he has a full-time grill cook, and other servers. Therefore, if he is in a bad mood, why does he cook, and complain about justified inquiries over the charred hash browns and undercooked hamburgers? More to the point, perhaps, I must ask why his mood affects his cooking. It is ridiculously unprofessional. If he knows the effect of emotion on cooking quality, why does he bother cooking when he knows he is in a bad mood? Common sense dictates that we avoid such behavior, yet here, in this diner, it is embraced. "Oh, that's just Luke," we're told, as if "just" actually answers any question._

 _Truly, we cannot recommend Luke's in Stars Hollow, with a clear conscience. If the proprietor is smiling, order swiftly, eat quickly, and leave promptly. If he is not smiling, leave. Do not attempt to understand. You will only get a headache, and there is too much good in Stars Hollow to allow this one establishment to disrupt your trip, whether it is for business or pleasure._

Done, Connor clicked a few keys, and allowed Alistair to read over his review. Eyes half-lidded, he watched Luke hum as he scrubbed clean his counters and tables. Nice view, but how long before the werewolf-like change cycled around again?

The bells over the door rang out their welcoming chime.

Luke's head came up. That, to Connor, was odd. The man generally barked or called a greeting without looking at its recipient. As he suspected, the person entering the diner was the effervescent, quick-witted Lorelai Gilmore, possibly his favorite Stars Hollow denizen. Her plan to own an inn earned his whole-hearted endorsement. He and Alistair couldn't wait to visit the Dragonfly the moment it opened.

"I don't have time for you," snarled Luke to Lorelai.

Lorelai's breath caught audibly. She slid meekly onto a stool at the counter. "I only wanted a cup of coffee," she said softly. "Kinda been a rough week."

"Yeah, well, I'm busy," said Luke, who was in fact polishing salt shakers.

Two sharp-eyed women lingering over their late lunch exchanged a pointed look, and leaned forward for what could not possibly be a better view than the one they had.

The cook came out of the kitchen, poured a mug full of coffee, and set it gently before the dejected Lorelai. "Thanks, Caesar," she said and forced a smile. She sat silently, sipping the coffee, as if determined to make the diner a haven, no matter what Luke thought about it.

Connor held out his hand. Alistair, being his long-time love-partner, understood, and slid his computer across the table.

 _The soup at Luke's is excellent,_ typed Connor, _but beware the many flies._

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AN: Whine (Yelp) debuted in fall 2004. Laptops that could actually be transported without breaking one's bones? Were also available by that time. Figure this is sometime in the Luke-Lorelai not-quite-fight of the Nicole era. Connor and Alistair are my OCs, and all opinions expressed are their own.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: Oh for crying out loud, can't we just assume if you're writing fanfic, you do not own the object of your devotion? Sheesh.

AN: This challenge from Droolia. How *does* Paris make ends meet in S6, when everything went weird(er)? There's got to be more than serving at a DAR event to pay those bills while LL derail and so forth.

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Eight: Capitalist Pigs

In a life longer by experience than by years, Paris Geller had encountered many puzzling situations. Some of this was attributable to her biological mother's mental struggles, her heart-mother Nanny speaking Portuguese and rendering English a second language to Paris, and her father being such a distant figure that she could only determine his personality by second-hand reports. She was even aware that dating a professor was, in retrospect, something of her need for an older man's love. She did, after all, also find Richard Gilmore a fine-looking man. She had discovered valedictorians often ended up with eating disorders, that Doyle was a soulmate despite her refusal to believe in such things, and that role models were doomed to roll into the pit of disgrace.

The paycheck for the DAR event, however, stunned Paris out of the capacity to think.

She had to _feel_.

She felt afraid. Disgusted. Resigned. Angry. Puzzled. A child of high society, accustomed to wealth and its advantages, she had to face an ugly and horrible demotion.

She was the working poor.

Her paycheck had seemed glorious at the time it was promised by Rory Gilmore, via the catering company. She had been on her feet for eight hours, even though it was a four-hour event, because of setting up and taking down, and ten dollars an hour for eight hours had seemed like enough to buy groceries for a month, and she was in a total panic because her eighty dollars had disintegrated to a mere fifty-three dollars and odd cents. Which would pay her water bill, but not her electricity or rent or groceries.

Eighty dollars minus state, federal and local taxes had not seemed bad at first. After all, everyone knew the rich paid the most taxes.

Suddenly at the other end of that arithmetic, Paris Geller discovered why her father had so many accountants and lawyers around. It was to keep him from having to pay those petty problematic taxes. Exemptions abounded. Legal, and a sign of intelligence, by all accounts Paris ever heard, and so common that Paris never realized that the poor couldn't afford to hire the people who made sure they didn't have to pay taxes. It was the way of her world, until her tax-evading parents' assets were frozen.

Paris Geller had joined the great unwashed proletariat.

She knew now why they were unwashed. They couldn't afford _soap_.

The obesity and poor skin epidemics were further explained when Paris totted up her utter lack of tips for her night's work, and discovered she'd be unable to eat anything but ten-a-dollar noodle and soup packets. Studying the package of one such, she muttered, "Flour paste with chemical sprinkles. Oh my God. We expect people to function like this?!"

Had a Romanov been present, Paris might very well have driven them to Siberia herself. She also noted to formally apologize to the Marxist philosophy professor, Nanny, and the pizza delivery guy whose job she might well have to take if she wanted to avoid homeless starvation.

Swallowing hard, Paris summoned up the steel backbone she most certainly had, and set off with a page of ads in hand. "Maximum money for minimum time," she reminded herself. "I still have to get into med school. And law school."

Head held high, Paris marched into her hopefully temporary future.

GG GG GG

Paris folded her hands and stared at the man across the table. "Look. I'm blonde. For real blonde. I'm under twenty-five, I am physically fit, and humiliation is irrelevant to me at this point. I once cried on C-span. Also, I took six years of ballet, three years of modern, and a week of tap dancing. I am qualified for this job."

"Yeah, but you're about as, uh, sexy as, uh…" The club manager shrugged. "Well, you ain't. Sorry."

Eyes narrowed, Paris stood and pushed her face down to the club manager's. "You have any visitors who like the Mary Sue school girl thing?"

"Uh…" said the man, scratching the mole on his collarbone.

Paris announced, "Back in five, give me the audition, and they'll be handing me twenties."

"Ah crap," said the club manager, sat back, and sipped his coffee. He called over to the daytime bartender, "Dial up something for Her Royal Highness."

"Like what? Beethoven?"

"I dunno. You're the music nerd, figure it out."

The bartender rolled his eyes, fiddled with an ancient CD-radio combo behind the bar, and announced, "Ha. NPR. That work for you?"

The manager laughed. "Let's see her dance to that crap."

Shrugging, the manager wiped cups and set them up for the midday rush. The popular idea of strip clubs being only open at night did not take into account how many men liked ahem-ahem "dessert" at lunchtime.

A military crunch of feet drew his attention.

"Hit the lights, give me a beat," announced Paris from the dark.

"Ah man, poor kid," said the bartender, maxing the volume on the radio in time for the announcer to drone, "And now, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, _Dies Irae_ from the requiem in D minor." Then he walked from behind the bar and turned on the house lights, as simpler than the actual light board.

The bartender's jaw dropped. The manager's eyebrows shot up.

Paris's blonde hair stood in a bundle atop her head, sternly pinned into submission. Her white blouse was unbuttoned to show a peep of lace, under her old Chilton jacket. Her Chilton skirt completed the ensemble, along with her knee-high socks and loafers.

"Good music," said Paris, dropped out of the classic ballet position known as third position, and transformed. As the voices of divine wrath boomed across the club, Paris flung her body into space, her control proving her teacher had been fond of the Russian style. A _tour en l'air_ took her to the pole and saw her Chilton jacket spin off as she whirled around the pole, bent backwards far enough to have broken a mere mortal's spine. Then she twirled into an arabesque to reveal a very white lacy set of underwear under that schoolgirl skirt.

The bartender and manager could not remove their eyes from her. They might miss something.

The pole on the stage became, somehow, the male half of the ballet Paris danced, her touchstone for leaps, spins, another arabesque that popped the bartender's eyes halfway out of his head. Somehow in the descant of sorrow, Paris shed her skirt and loafers, shimmying them off after a dramatic drop to the floor, so that she was now leaping with loose hair, a white shirt over sexy lingerie, and socks that rolled persistently down to her ankles.

She concluded with the music, the sonorous " _Amen_ " punctuated by a perfect split, and her arms in fifth position, her hair tousled and wild around her face.

The bartender squawked a low, "Hot for teacher," and grabbed ice water. He gulped it down, cubes and all.

"Heewhaduh?" drooled the manager, tucking his wallet back into his pocket before he handed it over on a wave of testosterone.

Crisply retrieving her shoes and skirt and jacket, Paris demanded, "So? Do I get the job or not? I'm a busy woman. I have classes, I have obligations, and I have bills to pay."

"Der-duh-wha?" answered the manager, hiccupping coffee through his nose.

Paris, back to her usual level of sensuality (zero), finger-combed her hair and pulled it into a ponytail. "English, please. I know French, Portuguese, English, Farsi and Mandarin, but French is my weakest language. Well? Am I employed three hours a day, six days a week, working for tips only, or does the naughty schoolgirl thing not play in this dive?"

An ice cube discreetly flung by the bartender landed in the manager's lap. He uttered a very sharp yip, followed by, "Uh. Yeah. Sure. Good terms. Start tomorrow."

"Excellent."

"How do you know you'll get tips enough to pay those bills?" asked the manager now that he could think coherently again.

"You have any other girls who can get you hot and bothered by Mozart?" countered Paris.

Unwilling to admit total defeat, the manager suggested, "Black and lacy. Shows through the blouse."

"Good point. See you at noon tomorrow. Thanks, boss," said Paris, and vanished into the restroom to change back into jeans and pullover. Upon emerging, she looked once again like any determined Yale student, slicing through life like the well-honed instrument of success she had been raised to be. By her estimation, three hours a day, with approximately sixty dollars in tips per hour, gave her more than enough to manage rent, utilities and food.

She paused in her mental calculations to reflect that she had never guessed anyone other than Doyle would find her Chilton ballet at all worthwhile. It was a welcome surprise. Nor, despite the neighborhood, did Paris fear for her personal safety. All that dancing meant she packed a mean kick. More than enough to earn her way, and work up one hell of a paper for sociology while she was at it, thereby rendering her club job into academic research. Really, all in all, it couldn't have turned out better, and all because men were swine who threw money at half-clad women.

"Huh," said Paris to herself. "Who knew capitalist pigs could be so profitable?"

GG GG GG

AN: Liza Weil, who played the wonderful Paris, is actually a natural brunette, but what the heck. Also, as far as I know, no dancing skills. I just liked the idea that Paris would earn her money as a "suggestive" dancer, recycling her Chilton uniform and the presumably obligatory dance lessons inflicted upon many young girls. _Dies Irae_ translates to "day of wrath", and I decided it was appropriate. Because it's Paris. You never know what happens next. Thus, she performs the _tour en l'air_ more common to male dancers. Why am I explaining all this?


End file.
